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De Vlaamse schrijver Jan Van Droogenbroeck werd geboren te Sint-Amands op 17 januari 1835. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 januari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 17 januari 2009.
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Het zieke broerken
De moeder zit aan 't vensterraam,
Zij heeft een kind op haren schoot
En vouwt de handen biddend saam:
Ons broederken is bijna dood!
[p. 50] Hoe ligt het daar, op haren schoot,
Wat is het bleek, het arme wicht!
Mijn broederken is bijkans dood,
Dat nog op ons zijne oogen richt.
Wat ziet het bleek, het arme wicht!
Het legt zijn hoofdje moede neer
Terwijl 't op ons zijn oogen richt;
Want het bemint ons nog zoo teer!
Het legt het moede hoofdje neer
En zoekt in moeders armen rust.
Ach! het bemint ons nog zoo teer:
Het heeft ons gistren nog gekust...
Nu zoekt het bij de moeder rust.
Het wilde,.... maar en kan niet meer,
Het heeft ons gistren nog gekust:
Omarm ons, lieve, nog een keer!
Het wil wel, maar het kan niet meer!
Jan Van Droogenbroeck (17 januari 1835 - 27 mei 1902)
De Surinaamse schrijfster en beeldend kunstenares Dorothee Wong Loi Sing werd geboren in Paramaribo op 17 januari 1954. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 januari 2009.
Uit: Witmans hel
Daar gaan ze dan: vergezeld van een voortdurend innerlijk kontakt met mij, de Mamaisa, die de hoogmoedswaanzin, het onterechte superioriteitsgevoel, en de hebzuchtige egocentriciteit van de valse broeders en zusteren wil nivelleren.
In mij sluimeren ook onrustig de Witmensen, geplaagd door angstige voorspellende visioenen van hel en verdoemenis, want hoe goed hebben zij geweten, dat hun daden niet tot in alle eeuwigheid ongestraft zouden blijven, en dat zij de verstikte stem van hun eigen geweten niet voor immer zouden kunnen blijven negeren. Onrustig sliepen hun beenderen in mij, bedekt door marmeren praalgraven met lovende in-memoriams: de Suzanna Duplessis'en, de Cecil Rhodes'en, de tallozen. Onrustig keerden hun schimmen telkens en telkens terug naar de plaatsen waar zij hun wandaden bedreven hadden, tot zelfs de minst gevoelige arbeider, wandelaar of toerist op voormalige executieplaatsen, voormalige slavenplantages, in musea en antiekzaken (waar nog authentieke brandijzers en folterwerktuigen te koop zijn! Om als versiering voor je huis te dienen!) het gevoel kreeg, iets op te hebben gevangen van een echo uit het schuldige verleden. Ook de witmensen van toen bekleed ik met nieuw vlees, maar ik plaats ze in parallelle werelden, waar de historie ná hun succesvolle historische wandaden nèt iets anders verloopt Enkelen ge-
[p. 186]nieten de twijfelachtige eer, in dezelfde parallelwereld te mogen reïncarneren, waar ze in historische tijden zo'n ongebreidelde macht uitoefenden en aanzien genoten. Daar zullen ze verdwaald en angstig moeten toezien, hoe de afstammelingen der slaven nu gelijk zijn in velerlei, of zelfs superieur in sommige aspecten. En dan laat ik ze lòs, allen, op het door hen gekozen tijdstip.
En verklaar de jacht voor geopend.
Dorothee Wong Loi Sing (Paramaribo, 17 januari 1954)
De Engelse schrijver Nevil Shute werd geboren op 17 januari 1899 in Ealing. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 januari 2009.
Uit: The Far Country
They went back to the hotel, and rested for a time in the lounge with glasses of cold beer, and dined, and went out to see Worms Eye View, and laughed themselves silly. They got up late by their standards next day, and early by those of the hotel, and went down to their breakfast in the dining room. As country folk they were accustomed to a cooked breakfast and the hotel was accustomed to station people; half a pound of steak with two fried eggs on top of it was just far enough removed from normal to provide a pleasant commencement for the day for Jack. Jane ate more modestly - three kidneys on toast and a quarter of a pound of bacon. Fortified for their days work they set out to look at pictures with a view to buying one.
The first gallery they went to was full of pictures of the central Australian Desert. The artist had modeled his style upon that of a short-sighted and eccentric old gentleman called Cezanne, who had been able to draw once but had got tired of it; this smoothed the path of his disciples a good deal. The Dormans wandered, nonplused, from mountain after mountain picture, glowing in rosy tints, all quite flat upon the canvas, with queer childish brown scrawls in the foreground that might be construed into aboriginals. A few newspaper clippings, pinned to the wall, hailed the artist as one of the outstanding landscape painters of the century.
Jack Dorman, deep in gloom at the impending waste of money, said, "Which do you like best? Thats a nice one, over there."
Jane said, "I dont like any of them. I think theyre horrible."
"Thank God for that," her husband replied. The middle-aged woman seated at the desk looked at them with stern disapproval.
They went out into the street. "Its this modern stuff," Jane said. "Thats not what I want at all."
"What is it you want?" he asked. "Whats it got to be like?"
She could not explain to him exactly what she wanted, because she did not know herself. "Its got to be pretty," she said, "and in bright colours, in oils, so that when its raining or snowing in the winter you can look at it and like it. And its got to be like something, not like those awful daubs in there."
The next gallery that they went into had thirty-five oil paintings hung around the walls. Each picture depicted a vase of flowers standing on a polished table that reflected the flowers and a curtain draped behind; thirty-five oil paintings all carefully executed, all with the same motif. A few newspaper cuttings pinned up announced the artist as the outstanding flower painter of the century.
Nevil Shute (17 januari 1899 12 januari 1960)
De Engelse schrijfster Mrs Henry Wood werd geboren in Worcester op 17 januari 1814 als Ellen Price. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 januari 2009.
Uit: Reality Or Delusion?
THIS is a ghost story. Every word of it is true. And I don't mind confessing that for ages afterwards some of us did not care to pass the spot alone at night. Some people do not care to pass it yet.
It was autumn, and we were at Crabb Cot. Lena had been ailing; and in October Mrs. Todhetley proposed to the Squire that they should remove with her there, to see if the change would do her good.
We Worcestershire people call North Crabb a village; but one might count the houses in it, little and great, and not find four-and-twenty. South Crabb, half a mile off, is ever so much larger; but the church and school are at North Crabb.
John Ferrar had been employed by Squire Todhetley as a sort of overlooker on the estate, or working bailiff. He had died the previous winter; leaving nothing behind him except some debts; for he was not provident; and his handsome son Daniel. Daniel Ferrar, who was rather superior as far as education went, disliked work: he would make a show of helping his father, but it came to little. Old Ferrar had not put him to any particular trade or occupation, and Daniel, who was as proud as Lucifer, would not turn to it himself. He liked to be a gentleman. All he did now was to work in his garden, and feed his fowls, ducks, rabbits, and pigeons, of which he kept a great quantity, selling them to the houses around and sending them to market.
But, as every one said, poultry would not maintain him. Mrs. Lease, in the pretty cottage hard by Ferrar's, grew tired of saying it. This Mrs. Lease and her daughter, Maria, must not be confounded with Lease the pointsman: they were in a better condition of life, and not related to him. Daniel Ferrar used to run in and out of their house at will when a boy, and he was now engaged to be married to Maria. She would have a little money, and the Leases were respected in North Crabb.
Mrs Henry Wood (17 januari 1814 10 februari 1887)
De Engelse schrijver, politicus en staatsman George Lyttelton, 1e Baron Lyttelton werd geboren in Hagley, Worcestershire op 17 januari 1709. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 januari 2009.
Uit: Dialogues of the Dead
_Mr. Hampden_.--I wished for peace too, as ardently as your lordship, but I saw no hopes of it. The insincerity of the king and the influence of the queen made it impossible to trust to his promises and declarations. Nay, what reliance could we reasonably have upon laws designed to limit and restrain the power of the Crown, after he had violated the Bill of Rights, obtained with such difficulty, and containing so clear an assertion of the privileges which had been in dispute? If his conscience would allow him to break an Act of Parliament, made to determine the bounds of the royal prerogative, because he thought that the royal prerogative could have no bounds, what legal ties could bind a conscience so prejudiced? or what effectual security could his people obtain against the obstinate malignity of such an opinion, but entirely taking from him the power of the sword, and enabling themselves to defend the laws he had passed?
_Lord Falkland_.--There is evidently too much truth in what you have said. But by taking from the king the power of the sword, you in reality took all power. It was converting the government into a democracy; and if he had submitted to it, he would only have preserved the name of a king. The sceptre would have been held by those who had the sword; or we must have lived in a state of perpetual anarchy, without any force or balance in the government; a state which could not have lasted long, but would have ended in a republic or in absolute dominion.
George Lyttelton (17 januari 1709 24 augustus 1773)
Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 17 januari 2009.
De Duitse schrijfster Hella Eckert werd geboren op 17 januari 1948 in Bremen.
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